


Maratelle's Burdens

by NebulousMistress



Series: Let Slip the Hounds of the First Order [5]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Mild Blood, Mild Xenophilia, Monster Armitage Hux, No Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:53:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24947944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NebulousMistress/pseuds/NebulousMistress
Summary: TheAbsolutionis theirs. Brendol has free reign to run his Stormtrooper Corps how he sees fit, without supervision, without judgement, without betrayal.Then why does it feel like they're fleeing again?
Relationships: Brendol Hux/Maratelle Hux
Series: Let Slip the Hounds of the First Order [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698706
Comments: 11
Kudos: 32





	Maratelle's Burdens

Maratelle Hux gazed out over the bright white planet below, marred by recent comet impacts and the beginnings of heavy industry. She should be pleased. Her husband was a general in the Imperial Remnant, the First Order. He’d recently returned after months away on a mission to acquire children for his Stormtrooper program. He’d been given command of a beautiful ship, the _Absolution_ , one of a brand new class of star destroyer that floated in view from her perch in her empty quarters on the _Locutor_.

She was off that rainy mudball Arkanis and its strange glowing fungal growths. She hadn’t been made to set foot on that planet for nearly two decades now. Two decades without slipping off of a path and ending up waist deep in a black bog. Two decades without the smell of rain and fungal spores. Two decades without muddy footprints in the foyer, wet handprints on the walls, cadets wrestling in the courtyard, and having to offer Imperial rations to guests lest the native cuisine offend someone.

Two decades without watching the evolved-human natives prowl about her household in their perpetual half-naked states, long and lithe and wet, spots flushed and eyes shining in delightful colors.

She had to admit she missed that part. Stormtroopers just didn’t provide the same type of eyecandy.

Unlike others, however, she knew how to look and not touch. 

Others such as the man behind her. She didn’t turn around, instead glancing at his reflection in the transparasteel.

“It’s time,” Brendol said.

Maratelle turned her eyes back on the _Absolution_ in the distance. Brendol’s first true command since the Academy on Arkanis, a place for him to run his Stormtrooper program without interference. Without supervision. Without Commandant Stiles or General Pryde to keep his impulses in line.

The thought made her want to stay here. She’d rather watch Brendol’s next moves from afar. Instead he insisted she be a part of them.

“Come along, wife,” Brendol commanded and she bristled at his tone. It was the same tone he used on Armitage when he was feeling charitable. Perhaps he thought it made him sound endearing but Brendol hadn’t been ‘endearing’ in years.

Maratelle spared one last glance for Ilum and the industrial ships lowering equipment into the great crater that opened the mining trench. “I thought you were in control of the Ilum project,” she mused.

Brendol’s indulgent mood soured and he scowled. “Engineering retook it,” he spat. “They’re calling themselves the ‘mad science corps’ like it makes them a branch of the First Order.”

There was more to the story. Maratelle knew Armitage was involved, everybody who watched the comets impact the planet knew Armitage was involved. He was a smart boy, rumor said he was involved in the design of these new star destroyers. Whatever his plan for Ilum, Maratelle trusted he at least wouldn’t blow himself up.

Maratelle allowed Brendol to take her hand as he led her through the corridors of the _Locutor_ to the waiting shuttle. All their belongings were already aboard the _Absolution_ , the crew and all the Stormtrooper cadres were already transferred to the new ship. Plans were in place to transfer as many creches as possible. The entire Stormtrooper program in one place, just like it was on Arkanis. The entire program under Brendol’s control, free of outside influences. A chance to prevent any more fractures in the system.

Then why did it feel like they were fleeing again? And what were they fleeing from?

*****

The shuttle landed in the hangar bay of the _Absolution_. Maratelle disliked these large formal disembarks. She’d much rather have the chance to meet with the officers in private, where they weren’t being watched by thousands of Stormtroopers. Instead she stepped out with Brendol onto the hangar tarmac of his brand new ship with its legions of Stormtroopers all standing at attention like they were greeting the Supreme Leader himself. She smiled vacantly, her hands draped elegantly over his arm as he led her around like another one of his trophies. One bright red suit of armor wore a captain’s cape over his right shoulder; at least Cardinal was here. Cardinal never liked these presentations either, too easy for an assassin to take advantage. She gave him a pleading look, imploring him to end this quickly.

She pouted at the incline of his blank helm. There would be no quick end today. She sighed and resigned herself to Brendol’s overdone pomp.

First, an inspection of the legions assembled. Then Brendol had a speech prepared. Maratelle stood in the background and applauded when necessary, pretending to be invested. Yes, this ship was a representation of the might of the Imperial Remnant and the First Order. Yes, they were all the last hope of a galaxy falling to chaos. Yes, there were great things on the horizon and they would all be a part of it.

There was no mention of those Stormtroopers recently lost, those who fled to the Technician Corps after Brendol pulled the Stormtrooper Corps off of the Ilum project. There was no mention of the Ilum project at all.

Brendol dismissed the legions then held out his arm for Maratelle again. She draped herself across his side, hoping this meant the spectacle was over and she could get down to business with the command staff.

Instead Brendol took her back down to the hangar floor where Cardinal spoke to a Stormtrooper the size of a Wookie.

“General,” Cardinal greeted. He nodded at Maratelle, not daring to greet her by name in front of Brendol. 

“Maratelle, dear, I want you to meet someone,” Brendol said, pride dripping from his voice. “This is Phasma. I found her on Parnassos. She’s ruthless and bloodthirsty, murdered her entire clan to get ahead. No remorse. No pity. No empathy. She’s perfect!”

“But does she eat her kills?” Maratelle drawled.

A shadow of anger crossed Brendol’s features and Maratelle made note of his mental state. Brendol’s ego was fragile today, more so than usual. It made moving to the _Absolution_ feel even more like fleeing.

“Not usually,” Phasma said. “There’s no safe meat on Parnassos and the First Order has enough food.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Cardinal mumbled.

“I think she’ll be an excellent addition to the Stormtrooper training program,” Brendol said, clearly ignoring them. “Once we get her the basics, of course. Maratelle, my dear, did you know there are still planets in the New Republic where the populace can’t read or write?”

Maratelle knew the implication. She glanced at this giant and watched as Phasma realized it as well. Phasma’s stance changed to one of irritation and indignation. Interesting. “I’m sure there are,” she said. “The Outer Rim is full of planets in need of investment, protection, enrichment. The New Republic only cares about exploitation, anything else is incidental.”

“So I’ve heard,” Phasma allowed. “The First Order says it will be different. I’m here to be a part of that.”

“The rest of us all feel the same way,” Cardinal said with pride. “Talk to any of us, you’ll hear the same stories. We were trapped on desolate planets with no way out. No hopes, no futures. Most of us were orphans and slaves. A few were given to the Order by parents desperate to give their children a better life.”

“What about you?” Phasma asked.

“I was rescued from a desert planet called Jakku. I was an orphan on the streets of a spaceport, stealing food and water whenever I could. I wouldn’t have lived to grow up if the General hadn’t found me.”

In all the times Cardinal told that story the grateful pride never left his voice. Maratelle liked that about him, he was loyal. He was a known quantity. Much more known than this Phasma. Even more so than Brendol himself ever since the Supreme Leader took Armitage away from them.

Maratelle couldn’t read the expression behind Phasma’s helm. Even with all her years reading Stormtrooper’s body language she couldn’t read this Phasma’s movements.

Maratelle didn’t trust her. Somehow she knew the feeling was mutual.

*****

The bridge crew of the _Absolution_ would do. Most of them were young officers, children and teenagers when the Empire fell. They would follow orders, they didn’t know how not to. Brendol’s second, or perhaps his seconds, would quickly grow tiresome. The Majors Raan would have to be separated and placed onto different shifts. Moved into separate quarters. If necessary, one of them transferred to a different ship. They were two different people, they should learn to act like it.

Maratelle stood outside Brendol’s quarters, unsure what to do. All of these new rooms required code cylinders. It meant she couldn’t open the doors to what she assumed would be her quarters. It made perfect sense, why else would there be two command suites on a Star Destroyer if not to house a commander’s spouse? Instead the only code cylinder she had was keyed to Brendol’s quarters. Surely she wasn’t expected to live in the same rooms as him, was she?

No. It must be an oversight. She pressed the cylinder to the code reader and the door slid open. Whatever the problem was she’d have Cardinal handle it.

Maratelle entered.

First Order accommodations were just as spartan as the Empire’s. Brendol’s medals and commendations sat in their black-rimmed cases like trophies. A few curiosities smuggled from Arkanis sat on a shelf, gifts from Grand Admirals who visited the Academy. A cabinet stocked full of bottles and decanters, five cut crystal tumblers with the sixth long ago shattered. A desk already littered with datapads.

A severe and square couch in neutral blue. A transparasteel caf table sat low before it, empty boxes stacked high on top.

“Brendol, are you in here?” Maratelle called.

“In here, wife.”

Maratelle did not like his tone. He sounded too pleased with himself. She knew that tone. She sighed, put on a neutral expression, and followed his voice to the bedroom.

The double bed was barely large enough for one person to fully stretch out much less sleep two people comfortably. The two pillows on the bed gave her a sense of dread. Her own clothes hung up in the closet next to Brendol’s parade uniforms worsened it. He expected her to live with him!

That was a worse shock than Brendol himself. He wore nothing, the skin grafts still visibly pinker than the rest of his radiation-tanned skin. He reclined on the bed with his legs stretched before him. Given the hand rubbing his own semi-hard penis he clearly had an idea how this night was supposed to go.

“I don’t have a code cylinder for my quarters,” Maratelle said, making the effort to ignore Brendol’s obvious idea.

“Yes you do,” Brendol said. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Maratelle didn’t know what to say to that.

“This is a brand new ship and it’s mine, all mine,” Brendol tempted. “Nobody’s ever slept here. Nobody’s ever rutted here. We’re the first ones and we can be just as depraved as we want.” He reached over to the nightstand, pulling out a paintbrush and a few pots of edible bodypaint. He laid them out like an offering, a temptation. “I’ve been civilized for too long. I can’t **stand** it anymore.”

“And your streak of civility has nothing to do with Pryde knowing what you’re getting up to?” Maratelle asked, the mocking tone just barely kept out of her voice.

Brendol growled and got to his feet. She backed away even as he approached, pressing her to the wall. “There’s no one here to judge me,” he promised. “Not Pryde, not you, not Brooks, not even the Supreme Leader. Finally, for the first time in years we’re free of all of it.” He leaned down to lick the side of her throat, hot breath on her neck. “One of us is taking the spots tonight, my dear. I’m offering them to you first. If you don’t want it, I can always get a droid to paint me.”

Maratelle gasped and shuddered at the feel of his fat tongue on her throat. The thought of him wearing those spots and acting like a possessive mindless animal did not sit well with her. She didn’t want them either but…

“Paint me, then,” she allowed.

Brendol growled and pulled at the neck of her tunic, unclasping the civilian’s uniform as he bared her skin to his perusal. “You love it when I paint you,” he growled as he pulled her breastband down. He grabbed each breast and smooshed them together, burying his face in the cleavage between and making a sound that might be an approximation of an Arkanan’s purr.

Maratelle reached up to undo her hair, to release it from its prison of pins and ties. It fell to her shoulders in soft brown waves as he pulled the tunic from her shoulders and dropped it on the floor. The breastband went next, unwrapped from her chest and tossed aside.

He pulled her away from the wall and tossed her at the bed, growling. She landed on the mattress with a bounce, meeting his possessive growl with a glare of her own.

She was not in the mood for this right now. But she didn’t know what else to do anymore. Brendol would paw at her whether she wanted it or not and years of this had taught her nobody would stop him. The most she could do was take the spots herself and maintain some control over the situation, possibly turning it to her advantage.

“Spots first,” Brendol warned. “Then you’ll fight me.”

Maratelle growled, eyes narrowed as she lay face-down on the bed. She allowed him to slide her pants and panties from her hips, pausing only to swear and wrestle with her boots. Once it was all off she felt his weight settle on her legs then the cool stroke of the paintbrush on her spine.

This part was almost enjoyable. The soft stroke of the brush against her skin felt nice, soft and delicate. The paint it left behind smelled dark and sweet, chocolate carefully selected to match the color of her hair. The pattern was familiar, the same one painted on her so many times she could have drawn it from memory. So different from the times she had to paint spots on Brendol, red-orange paint applied in enough random dots to satisfy his absurd need.

Brendol painted a long line down her spine from the nape of her neck to the cleft of her rear. Short stripes flared out on either side. Spots dotted along her shoulders and over the cheeks of her ass. Spots followed the lines of her ribs to fade to tiny dots along her sides.

She wondered who exactly these spots were patterned after in real life. She didn’t remember any of the Arkanans with this pattern at the Academy. But then it had been so long ago…

Brendol signalled he was done by licking along her spine, lapping at the long line of chocolate paint. She arched up onto her elbows, snarling under her breath.

“That’s it,” Brendol gasped. She could hear the shudder in his voice, the need. He grabbed her hips, pulled her up to her hands and knees, and used his knees to try and knock her thighs apart.

Maratelle slammed both hands onto the bed like claws, twisted around in his grip, and snarled with teeth bared.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Brendol murmured. “I’d keep you like this if I could. Spotted and fierce and always ready for me.” He pulled her to him again, grinding his cock against the curve of her ass.

She growled, pulled forward, then slammed back with her hips. The force knocked Brendol over and she jumped off the bed. She turned to face him, crouched low like his game demanded. “You can’t handle me like this and you know it,” she snapped.

“You’ll find I can, my dear,” Brendol warned gleefully. “You can't get away. We can’t have the whole ship seeing you in nothing but your spots. Whatever will they think of you?” He stood up, hands out and ready as he lunged at her.

She had nowhere to go in the small room and he caught her by the wrists, holding them above her head as he licked at her neck. She growled low and he moaned at the vibrations against his tongue. He pulled her against him then shoved her back onto the bed.

Maratelle brought her feet up to kick him, aiming for his face.

Her heel connected with his nose.

A sickening crunch wrenched a scream from Brendol.

Maratelle growled low as she pulled away from him, unsure if this meant an early end to his game. Sometimes it didn’t and he’d keep going, insisting on bleeding all over her as he rutted into her. But this time he pulled away, swearing under his breath.

“Pfassking chaos, woman, I don’t have a medkit in here,” Brendol swore. He held his hands over his broken nose, trying to keep its shape.

Maratelle dropped the feral act and got up from the bed. It seemed she wouldn’t have to put up with his wandering hands tonight after all. But she couldn’t celebrate yet, first she needed to comm Cardinal. “I’ll have Cardinal fetch us a medical droid,” she said.

“Do that.” Brendol sat on the bed, his blood beginning to slick his hands. 

Maratelle sat at Brendol’s desk and laid her hands upon the touchscreens. She pulled up the comms system and scrolled through it, finding Cardinal’s contact information and an earpiece that would allow her to have a semi-private conversation with him. She activated it, voice only, and stuffed the earpiece in her ear.

“Lady Maratelle,” Cardinal greeted. “Is something wrong?”

Maratelle did truly enjoy it when Cardinal took it upon himself to use the title she hadn’t earned. No admonishment from Brendol could ever get him to stop and Maratelle considered him an absolute dear for it. “I’m in Brendol’s quarters,” she said. “We find ourselves in need of a medkit. Could you be a dear and send for a medical droid, no questions asked?”

Cardinal went quiet then made a disapproving noise. “Yes, Maratelle,” he allowed. “Would you wait for it in his quarters or should I direct it to meet you in the corridor.”

“That second one would be fine.”

“Understood. Corridor A-3, second junction. Cardinal out.”

Maratelle pulled the earpiece from her ear and placed it in its alcove on the desk. “Cardinal warned me the medical droids don’t yet know the layout of the ship,” she said, pulling a shawl from a closet to cover at least some of her modesty. “I have to meet it in Corridor A-3, of all places.” She grabbed Brendol’s code cylinder from his desk and was out before he managed more than a scandalized noise.

Maratelle checked the corridor before padding on bare feet away from Brendol’s quarters. She held the gray shawl around her, the ends collected in one hand over her right breast. She let it dip low behind her to reveal her pattern of painted spots, the fabric sliding off of her left breast as she walked.

She refused to acknowledge the Stormtroopers at the junction, walking right past them even as their shocked stances and the slight movements of their helms betrayed how they gaped and gawked at her.

It wasn’t long before Cardinal jogged around the corner with a medical droid waddling behind him. Maratelle stood tall and proud, as though she wasn’t one shawl away from nudity and covered in painted spots after having just fled her husband’s less than wanted attention. “I broke his nose,” she said as explanation.

“Did he deserve it?” Cardinal asked.

Maratelle gave the slightest smirk then turned to lead him and the droid down the corridor to the command quarters. “I’ve been informed I don’t have quarters,” she said as her answer. “This Star Destroyer has two sets of commander’s quarters. I see no reason why the second set should be left empty.”

“Understood.”

Maratelle rearranged her shawl to make it look like she hadn’t been seen with her spots out and one breast bare and pressed Brendol’s code cylinder to the reader. The door slid open.

“Pfassk it all, woman, you don’t need to go parading about like that!” Brendol finished pulling on and fastening a pair of uniform trousers, his blood-slick hands leaving prints and stains on the gray fabric. He scowled as he saw Cardinal and the medical droid behind her.

“I’m sorry, sir, but your preferred droids haven’t yet adapted to the new ship,” Cardinal said. It wasn’t entirely a lie. Brendol’s preferred medical droid, an older model that he’d acquired to tame Armitage and then kept around, hadn’t yet adapted to the code cylinder system on the _Resurgent_ -class Star Destroyers. Teaching it was proving to be difficult, it refused to speak and only communicated with other computers when plugged in with a hard connection. Of course it could have found its way to Brendol’s quarters and waited out of sight but Maratelle had different orders.

Brendol growled but didn’t make a scene. He glared at Cardinal then Maratelle then back at Cardinal, suspecting some level of betrayal. Paranoia was healthy for someone in his position and he clung to it even as he allowed the medical droid to reset the shattered cartilage of his broken nose. Bacta stuffed up the nose only went so far and he’d need to wear tape for the next few days to keep his nose in its proper shape. 

“Cardinal, requisition a medkit for my quarters,” Brendol ordered even as the droid finished taping him.

“I’ll handle it personally, sir,” Cardinal said.

“Good boy,” Brendol praised. He gingerly touched his sore and broken nose. His nose was stuffed full of bacta gel, thick enough that it wouldn’t drip down his throat while he slept. That meant sleeping with his mouth open all night.

Maratelle knew that meant snoring and one of them on the couch all night.

With any luck, it meant one of them on the couch until she could get the command quarters next door all to herself.

*****

Brendol was still sulking in his office with his taped nose three days later when Maratelle got the messages. First, the quarters next door were open and if she’d report to have her code cylinder updated they were hers. Second, a scathing letter from General Pryde about ‘indiscretions’ and ‘deviancy’ that didn’t have to name names. Third, a single word note without a sender asking simply ‘Tea?’

She tapped on her datapad to accept the first and third. She saved the second for later, after she’d moved her things out of Brendol’s mess.

A pair of Stormtroopers served her purposes nicely, moving the furniture until it fit the room to her liking. The desk didn’t need to be the center of attention in the room, it could be shoved off to one side. The couch had potential but for now she needed the low caf table in the middle of the room. She requisitioned large pillows, officially to match the couch and the bed, but better suited for the floor. 

A ceramic tea set in the cabinet where Brendol kept his liquor. Delicate and intricate pieces of artwork where Brendol kept his medals and his trophies. A sonic shower to replace the water sanistream showers that came standard for the commander’s quarters. The softest bedding she could requisition while Brendol… preferred to sleep on the same, to be honest. The desk covered in datapads was also the same, though her tasks were much less military.

Yes, this was better. Just in time, as well. A droid carried in the supplies she’d requested for this evening. She had company tonight.

*****

There was a knock on the door.

Maratelle lay sprawled out on her own couch, datapad in hand while she reviewed some social plans among the Order. She checked the chronometer before getting up and dropping the datapad on her desk.

Punctual as always. She pressed the button that opened her door.

Armitage stood in his clean and pressed gray captain’s uniform. He looked almost human. If someone didn’t know they might mistake him for one, dismissing the shockingly red hair as a product of some bottle of dye. But she knew better. Most people would have considered the eyes to be the first clue but not her. Maratelle had known this man since he was a child, the eyes were not what tipped her off in the slightest. It was the way he moved.

Brendol used to force Armitage into a corset as a child, hopeful it would train his spine to stand upright and steady like a human’s. Over the years the corset was replaced with a back brace and then finally left behind when Armitage left the cadre, regained his name, and took an officer’s commission. As far as Maratelle could see it never worked as Armitage slunk into her quarters with the same predatory fluidity of every Arkanan she’d ever known.

She was ready for him.

Maratelle gestured toward the transparasteel caf table in the middle of the room. The table was surrounded by a carpet of pillows like a warlord’s boudoir. The ceramic tea set sat on the table, the teapot sitting empty and waiting next to a steaming autokettle and a tin of tarine leaves. A tiered tray held a collection of edibles for the both of them, from the stuffed mushrooms and flavored cheeses for Armitage to the scones and cookies she favored.

Armitage knelt on the floor among the pillows and poured water from the autokettle to the teapot, adding three spoons of tea leaves as well. He fitted the lid over the teapot and let the leaves steep.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” he allowed. “He never would have gotten this ship without you.”

“That is true,” Maratelle agreed. She also sank to the floor, foregoing the couch behind her. “And then he had the audacity to assume I’d live with him. I had to parade about to get these.”

“I heard about that.”

“I rather think you would have. Pryde sent me some choice words about it.”

“By the time word got to the _Locutor_ I heard stories about the two of you chasing each other naked through the corridors, both painted with spots, rutting in the lifts. I assume those are just stories. Let me guess, he put spots on you and lost the fight.”

“And then I had to wrap myself in something handy to meet the medical droid in the nearby corridor,” Maratelle agreed as she poured tea from the pot into waiting cups. “Whoever thought stormtroopers could be such gossips?”

Armitage snorted with suppressed laughter. The sarcasm of her statement made it clear she knew exactly what she was doing. The stormtroopers under Brendol’s command were the absolute worst gossips in the First Order and everyone knew it. No wonder the story expanded so ridiculously.

“You know how I feel about rutting in lifts,” Maratelle continued. She blew on her tea, taking a sip. It was bitter with an herbal quality, sharp and fierce and nearly numbing with its strength. She plucked a buttery cookie from the tray and dipped it in her tea, allowing the pastry to soak up the bitter tea.

“Only Stormtroopers and petty officers rut in lifts,” Armitage said, tossing her own viewpoint back at her.

“And do I look like anyone’s petty officer?” She bit into her tea-soaked cookie, the bitterness mellowed by the sweet cookie.

Armitage smiled, letting his titanium teeth bare themselves to her. Maratelle refused to feel threatened by mere teeth even though she’d seen in the arena what those teeth could do to a person. She knew enough about the man who wielded them to realize it wasn’t his teeth she should fear.

He shifted, lounging on the pillows like a giant cat. He reached up to pluck a stuffed mushroom from the tray, delicately biting into it despite his giant teeth. He sipped tea between bites as though the mushroom was somehow just as sweet as the cookies Maratelle favored.

“Tell me, what are you doing with Ilum?” she asked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Armitage admitted as he licked his fingers and plucked another mushroom from the tray. “At the moment I’m drawing up designs with my science team.”

“I heard Ilum is rich in kyber, does that factor into your plans?”

Maratelle did not expect Armitage to start laughing. She especially did not expect that laughter to grow steadily manic, almost disbelieving. He stuffed his head under a pillow before sitting up, hair in disarray. “‘Rich in kyber’ is a gross understatement. Ilum’s core is a single 3000 kilometer wide kyber crystal encased in iron.”

Maratelle quickly put her teacup down as her eyes went wide.

“Right now I’m just trying to figure out how to access the frakking thing. My scientists have ideas but even the easiest involve an access shaft drilled halfway through the mantle. Such a hole makes the Empire’s mining trenches look like a child’s scrapes in comparison.”

“That’s what you’re doing then?” she asked. “For now, at least.”

“I have mining droids stripping the inner planets for the alloys I need,” Armitage agreed. “I should be able to sink an access shaft down to the core if I have to. Until then, if I could ask a favor?”

“What is it?”

“Keep Brendol occupied.”

“That won’t be difficult,” Maratelle mused. “Have you met his new project? Some feral giantess from a radioactive wasteland.”

“Not formally,” Armitage admitted. “I’m sure Brendol told you I was assigned to his rescue.”

“Stiles informed me you and your Hounds rescued him.” She pulled a scone from the tray, spreading clotted cream over it with a knife.

“Brendol passed out in the med bay while Phasma stayed on the bridge to watch all of us the whole way back.” He selected a cheese, something that oozed pale yellow between a firm white rind. He bit through the rind and purred.

“Was she attempting to learn the workings of the ship?” Maratelle asked. She bit into her scone and sipped her tea. The cream changed the bitter tea, mellowing it so it didn’t stab quite so harsh.

Armitage licked a dusting of white spores from the rind off of his fingers, still purring. “Not surrre,” he allowed, his purr stretching his voice. He picked up the next cheese, pale blue like nerf’s milk yet firm enough that it could be sliced thin. He laid a slice on his tongue and kept purring and Maratelle could never figure out how.

“Cardinal’s worried she’s here to replace him.”

Armitage stopped purring. His green eyes shifted, the pupils expanding as he considered this information. “That is news,” he allowed.

“For now I expect she’ll be here on the _Absolution_ with Brendol. Still, I think you should take the time to meet her. It might be advantageous.”

“Indeed it might be,” Armitage agreed. He finished his tea then poured a second cup from the still-steeping pot.

Maratelle wrinkled her nose as he drank that as well. Oversteeped tarine tea was far too bitter for her tastes but she remembered her staff on Arkanis. Armitage drank the over-bitter dregs of the pot like they had, though he tempered every other sip with a stuffed mushroom. 

Only a fool would mistake this for a human and Maratelle was no fool. Worse, she knew this man. She’d watched him grow from afar, watched him snarl and snap at Brendol like a kicked dog. Watched him curl in on himself and then stretch like a cat once in his cadre. Once she thought she knew what he was capable of, and then the arena changed all that. Now Ilum.

Maratelle refused to be afraid of him. Or anyone. 


End file.
